Why Did I Just Give Up My Gloves?

by Pringle Franklin

PARIS—Today I met with my meditation coach at 9:30 a.m. We spent a relaxing and uplifting 45 minutes together, focusing on God and the nearness of the divine, before I had to quick-step it out of her apartment. It was 10 minutes until my intermediate French class was to begin, yet it was a 20-minute journey from the Right Bank to the Left Bank to get there. At best, I would be 10 minutes tardy.

When you are aware of the nearness of God, you are buffered from anxiety (this calming effect usually lingers an hour or two after meditation). So I was not in the least surprised to see the Metro train pulling up to the station at the exact moment that I was entering the turnstiles. Perfect timing for someone who was running late. LIne 6, Passy to Pasteur was the journey.

 There were open seats. I started to sit down in a four-seater grouping on my left; the space was only occupied by one man. Then, just before dropping into place, I scanned my eyes over the figure in that section. He was old and homeless, unwashed, slumped against the window, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Without thinking, I changed course and sat in an open chair on the other side of the aisle. I was not elbow-to-shoulder with the guy, but I was still within about nine feet. No one was seated between us. As he dozed, I surveyed the poor old soul, noticing his balding head, his small feet in blue canvas shoes, his denim jumpsuit from perhaps the 1970s. Most likely, he was not really going anywhere; he just wanted someplace warm where he could sit down and take a nap.

My mind wondered: what should I do about him? It is my personal policy not to give money to people on the street. Most of the time, I feel this is best, because I don’t know who or what the money is going to support. The beggars with the cute dogs and cats on the sidewalks of Paris are set up by the Eastern European mob. The gypsies keep their children out of school and force them to beg. The drunks are buying alcohol and drinking themselves to death. I feel better about giving food or other small gifts — bananas, packets of tissues, cough drops, gently used clothing  — but i do not feel compelled to give to every homeless person or beggar. In Paris, that could be a full-time job. Most often, I walk past them without paying much attention. Sometimes I simply say a silent prayer and keep going.

This time, I was still dewy fresh with the love of Jesus and God, having spent quiet, concentrated time in their company. And I did not consider it a coincidence that I found myself sitting across from this needy man. An idea entered my brain: I could give him my lovely, fuzzy NorthFace gloves. As you may have already guessed, I love these gloves, and I wear them every day. They are warm, cozy, and comfortable, and they block out the chill. Just last week, I had washed them, so they were actually relatively clean. It would not be rude to offer them to someone needy.

But was this really the thing to do? What if his hands were too large and he wouldn’t even be able to wear them? I tried to check out the size of the man’s hands, but he had them hidden in the folds of his outfit. After a few minutes, he moved his left hand and laid it on the open seat next to himself, almost as if he were displaying it. His hands looked average; yes, the gloves would fit him.

Okay, I decided I might muster my courage, but I would wait until I was about to step off the train before i woke the guy up. I did not wish to create a dramatic scene in front of everyone in the train car. Living in Paris has made me aware of the need to be discreet.

“Lord, give me a sign if this is your will,” I prayed. I felt a bit unsure about the whole thing. You can buy another pair of gloves, I told myself. That would mean walking to the mall and finding the NorthFace store and hoping that they still carried them. But hey —

At the next station, a young couple got on and sat between me and the old man. They turned and sat so that their backs were to him. And now my access to him was blocked. I would have to lean over these total strangers to wake up the old guy and attempt to give him my gloves. It felt too awkward.

“Okay, Lord,” I thought. “You just help me do whatever it is that I need to do.”

Surprisingly, the young couple exited at the next stop. But another guy sat down directly across from the tattered man. This new passenger was about 55 years old; his clothes were clean and yet, after a quick glance, I realized that he was probably needy too. He was dressed in worn clothing, layered with shirts and sweaters, and his pants were a bit too short. In the gap between his pants and his shoes, fuzzy pink socks peeked out. They were the thick kind of socks that a teenage girl might wear with her pyjamas. The kind of thing that un homme pauvre might get from a charity clothing drive.

When this man opened his mouth to smile, he was missing 90 percent of his teeth. That removed any doubt that I had about his status in life. Unlike the homeless man, this fellow was awake and fully alert. His brown eyes looked keen and clever. Now I would have to offer the gloves to the sleeping man in front of him; he might feel slighted, like a child who had been overlooked by Santa.

But it could not be helped.

My stop at Pasteur was approaching, so I leaned across the aisle and gently touched the dozing man on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, blinking to focus as he looked at me. I held my beloved black-and-white gloves toward him.

“Voulez-vous?” I asked. (Would you like?)

Incredibly, the old man shook his head. Non. He started to turn his face away and close his eyes again. I waved the gloves, hoping to attract his attention and help him see that les gants would be a lovely addition to his life. But he continued to reject them, turning from me. Guess that means I get to keep my gloves after all, I thought, until….

“Oui, oui, je les voudrais,” the other man said, smiling and showing a few sharp remnants of teeth. His eyes were happy as he looked at the gloves. I hesitated, running this change of script through my brain. 

The train pulled into the Pasteur station. I handed the gloves over. “Merci, merci,” the man said, then he added, “Thank you very much.”

For a moment I was surprised that he spoke any English, but of course beggars and con artists have learned to say a few useful phrases to the tourists. Now that I thought about it, this guy looked sort of like a gypsy. But I nodded respectfully at his grateful smile, adding, “Oui.”

Without missing my stop, I stepped toward the door and exited quickly.

Moments later, as I walked the dirty, busy sidewalks toward my classroom, I thought: what just happened? I just gave away my favorite gloves. Why did I do that?

To be completely honest, part of me was sad that I no longer had those fuzzy gloves. Did I mention that they were my favorites? It is cold and wet in Paris in the winter; without a car, we are walking all the time, in wind, rain, or sleet; gloves are mandatory for me, a person whose toes and fingers chill easily.

I was surprised by my emotions. Giving things away is supposed to make you feel good, right? Usually it does, but usually I do not give away something that I use daily. I give away something extra. It doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.

I wrestled with a new vision of myself. If I did not have the means to buy another pair, or a back-up pair of mittens stuck in a drawer somewhere, would I still have given away my gloves? As I searched my heart, I found the answer: no. Not to a stranger. Not to a homeless man. I would not be willing to endure cold hands all winter so that a random person would be warmer. I would endure this for my children, or for my mother. If my husband needed gloves, I would share my pair with him, taking turns. But I would not relinquish them.

The entire encounter had pushed me beyond my comfort zone. I am polite; I am helpful; I do my share. But I am not inclined to suffer on behalf of others. I comforted myself by imagining the man wearing the gloves on a wintry night, of his thinking how lucky and unexpected it had been when that English-speaking woman had simply given them away.

Okay, so I was glad. Sort of. What was wrong? It wasn’t really the loss of the gloves. I was uncomfortable with my reaction to the situation. Why wasn’t I filled with a golden glow?

I wished that I had a more generous heart; I wished that it was easier for me to make sacrifices. But sacrifices hurt. That is why they are costly.

Before going home, I stopped at The Simply Market to buy things for dinner; I was checking out at the grocery store, my mind preoccupied with the task at hand (in France, you have to bag your own items), when a thought ran across the stage of my mind. I had been honored. I had been blessed to do something for one of the least of these, which counts as having done it unto Christ.

In God’s eyes, it was as if I had given my gloves to Jesus, in the person of a down-trodden man, riding the Metro on the first day of December. The gypsy man without teeth was not the incarnate Christ — but the spirit of the act was holy, as if done unto the Lord. This thought humbled me. Of course I would give my gloves to Jesus! Who wouldn’t? I just hadn’t recognized the fullness of the situation in the moment. Perhaps next time, if there is a next time, giving something up will be easier.

37 ‘Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you ill or in prison and go to visit you?”

40 ‘The King will reply, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”                    

Matthew 25:37-40